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  • Writer's pictureSophie

Day 503


“Bonjour mademoiselle! Que voulez-vous boire?” the man at the counter asks us. My mom runs her fingers across the slick, white countertop. “Un cappuccino pour moi s’il vous plaît. Merci!” she says effortlessly. She looks down at me, as if to ask what I want, and my mind goes blank. In completely broken French, I mutter “Un hot chocolate s’il vous plaît”. Now sensing that we’re Americans, the man looks over his shoulder and shouts, “One cappuccino, and one hot chocolate for the little girl!”

Little girl?! I was far from a little girl. Standing at 5’5 at 13, I towered over my class, now sporting a shoe size larger than my own mom. How could he even say that?

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